by Ian Graham
Something else brushed against his shin. Ballas faltered— then he tripped as an eel curled around both ankles. Swearing, he fell face first into the water. He tried to rise but a great weight now lay upon his back.
Eels squirmed around him. Not just one or two. But dozens. He felt them. They wrapped themselves around his limbs like shackles. Their smooth-scaled sides slithered against his face. Their muscled flanks nudged him.
Amid so many creatures—amid the ugly smothering horde—he felt a claustrophobia unlike anything he had experienced before. The strong, elastic-bodied eels choked him. Panicking, he twisted, jerked, thrashed out—anything to break their imprisoning hold.
They were strong. Too strong for Ballas.
Yet they suddenly released him.
He scrambled to his feet. A few lingering eels dropped from him. They tumbled reluctantly from his shoulders, arms, legs. One clung doggedly to his wrist. Ballas tore it free and flung it far across the marsh.
He looked down.
Around his legs the water was motionless. Vapour bubbles popped on the surface—but nothing else disturbed the calm.
Ballas wiped water from his eyes. Then he gasped as his fingertips brushed some wound in his forehead. His hand came away wet with blood.
His tunic sleeves were bloodied. His leggings were bloodied. From the wound in his forehead, blood seeped into his eyes.
Ballas suddenly felt weak. The weakness was not the soft feebleness that follows panic. It was infinitely more exhausting. And irresistible.
Grunting, Ballas tugged back his sleeve. He saw exactly what he expected: bite marks. Two sets of four perforations.
He swore.
Lifting his head, he strode forwards. He did not know what type of venom eels carried. Whether it killed. Or paralysed. He did not even know what species of eel had attacked him. More than one kind, he knew. Most had been black-skinned. But others had been scarlet, some deep green.
He had to reach Lugen Crask’s home. The eel-catcher— the one-time smuggler of forbidden texts—would have an antidote.
Blinking, Ballas tried to keep his eyes open. Yet he felt too tired. Stumbling, he sank to his knees.
‘Come on, damn it,’ he urged himself. ‘Get a grip …’ He struggled to his feet—then his legs buckled.
Once more, he lay face down in marsh water. Now, though, he did not attempt to rise. There was no strength left in his arms, his legs. Every tendon might as well have been servered, every muscle cut away.
Water swirled into his mouth. Ballas realised he was drowning. Again, panic surged through him—yet there was nothing he could do.
Darkness crowded in on the edge of his vision. A thick purplish gloom, slowly clouding his sight. The world seemed to spin from under him; he was falling.
The water seethed as the eels returned. Glint-fanged jaws gnawed at Ballas. In the depths of his numbing fatigue, only the pain had clarity.
But that too passed.
The darkness thickened. And, suddenly, there was nothing.
Chapter 10
At every step, the pale pilgrim
Like a phantom shocked each living thing.
The bears and wolves fled the woodlands
As he passed through, as if they saw.
Into his soul …
Ballas awoke to the smell of decay. Before he opened his eyes, he recognised it as the marsh-stench: the odour of rotting vegetation. In his mind’s eye he glimpsed eels. Once more he saw the tubular creatures, locking themselves around him. As if his nerve ends held sensory echoes, he felt again their teeth clamping upon his flesh, their scaly sides brushing against him.
He opened his eyes.
His last memory had been of drowning in marsh water. Yet he was no longer outdoors. He was propped upright on a pallet-bed, in a sparsely furnished room. The floor and walls were made from bare wooden slats. Atop a crude rib-work of rafters, the roof was thatched. Ballas had no inkling how he had arrived there. It didn’t trouble him, though. He was growing accustomed to missing patches of memory, whether through violence or too much drink.
But it troubled him when he tried to move and found he could not. The paralysing eel-venom—had it damaged him permanently? Was he now a cripple?
His stomach heaved. In panic, he opened his mouth to shout—and then he realised his immobility had a less worrying cause.
Thick rope bound his arms to his sides. His legs were tied together at the ankles and knees. Another rope crossed his chest, tying him to the pallet-bed.
He struggled against the ropes. They refused to loosen.
At that moment a door opened. A man somewhere in his sixth decade stepped through. His grey-white hair was close-cropped; he sported a pepper-hued beard. His face was heavily lined, yet there was a brisk fluidity to his movements—as if every gesture had to be made quickly. In some men, such indicated nervousness. But this fellow seemed utterly calm. He glanced at Ballas. Then he looked quickly away. Murmuring, he closed the door.
‘You are awake,’ he said, looking again at the big man.
‘Untie me,’ said Ballas flatly.
Smiling, the bearded man said, ‘You must be thirsty. You drank gutfuls of marsh water, true; but for a day and a night, nothing has passed your lips—except for anti-venom.’
‘Old man,’ said Ballas thickly, ‘do as I tell you: untie me.’
As if Ballas had not spoken, the man lifted a cup to his lips. ‘Drink,’ he said. The fluid inside smelled sweet—like the mingled juices of a dozen fruits. Ballas was thirsty but he ignored the offering. Sighing, the other man moved away.
‘At first,’ he said, ‘the ropes were for your benefit. In your blood, there were half a dozen strains of eel venom. Each acts in roughly the same fashion. They relax certain muscles. Namely, those that are useful in self-defence and escape: the arms, legs, and so on. The lungs and heart, however, remain unaffected. The eels in this marsh prefer to dine on living flesh, you see. So they render you incapable, while preserving your life. If a man somehow avoids being consumed, and is given an anti-venom, his recovery will be attended by violence. The paralysed muscles spasm. Limbs thrash out, the head snaps back and forth—if the patient is poorly attended, he may kill himself. Or, however unwillingly, damage those very people who seek to help him. You will understand, therefore, that the ropes were necessary.’
‘But now I am cured?’
‘You are,’ said the man, nodding.
‘Then untie me.’
The man shook his head. ‘Now you are trussed up for my benefit. Out here, in the marshes, I have few … I have no visitors. That pleases me. In Keltherimyn, I am not well liked. There are many who would be pleased by my death. I am tolerated, of course: for who else can catch eels as well as I? There are breeds that only a few people in Druine can lure into their traps. These are in great demand. Their skin is turned into fine leather; their meat, if properly cooked, is a delicacy. In the market place, I sell these eels—for a pittance. The denizens of Keltherimyn then trade them on in Branhurst City, or Ganbrait, or wherever, for colossal profits. Thus I am spared. Thus I am granted peace. Naturally, I cannot dwell among these people. Who would live happily alongside those who despise him? So I live out here, in the marsh. And the eels help me in another way. Some men employ guard dogs to maintain their safety. I, however, have the eels. People rarely even attempt to reach me. Which is why,’ he looked closely at Ballas, ‘you puzzle me.’
‘Are you Lugen Crask?’
‘That is no secret,’ replied the man.
Ballas spoke softly. ‘It is said you trade in forbidden texts. Documents outlawed by the Pilgrim Church.’
For a long time, Crask did not speak. ‘That is untrue,’ he said eventually.
‘I have been told—’
‘Years ago,’ interrupted Crask, with a note of irritation, ‘I did trade in such documents. I was not alone. There were many of us, throughout Druine. Some were scholars, hungry for “the truth”—whatever that is. Others w
ere merchants, interested only in growing rich. For a while, we thrived. The Church had no inkling of our activities. Arrogant and happy, we basked in the sunlight of freedom; and the shadow of holy justice did not trouble us.’ He shrugged. ‘Then, one day, we woke to darkness. The Church had grown wise. Many of us were arrested. Our texts were destroyed—or confiscated. And we each paid a high price. Some of us were executed. Myself, I was incarcerated in the prison at Salworth. For twenty years I ate stale bread and drank fouled water. I spoke to no other living soul, except the warder who brought my food. The only light came from a feeble candle on a high ledge, For two decades, I smelled nothing but my own filth and the wet stones of the cell wall.’ He lifted his chin. ‘Such circumstances force one to reappraise one’s philosophy. In that cell, I discovered that money and learning are worthless. Liberty is the most valuable thing in life. Upon my release, I vowed never again to jeopardise my freedom.’
He stared hard at Ballas.
‘The people of Keltherimyn do not understand this. I am more law-abiding than any of them. Yet they still regard me as a criminal—a defiler of Holy Law.’
‘That is why they shun you?’
‘Look around you,’ said Lugen Crask, as if Ballas had not spoken. ‘There are no forbidden texts here. Whatever you want from me—whatever kind of document you require—I cannot assist you.’
Ballas gazed levelly at him. ‘I do not seek documents. I seek knowledge. Which were you, Crask: merchant or scholar?’
‘The true question,’ said Crask, ‘is what are you ? A Papal Warden, hm—here to entrap me? Or have the townsfolk sent you to discover evidence that I am still a criminal?’
‘I am neither of those things,’ replied Ballas. ‘I have no love for the Wardens. Nor for the townsfolk: a whisky merchant sent me here, without warning me about the eels. My condition,’ he glimpsed a bite-mark on his forearm, ‘is his doing.’
Crask released a long breath. Then he proffered the cup again. ‘Drink this,’ he said. ‘It will purify your blood. As well as slake your thirst.’
This time Ballas did not refuse. Crask lifted the cup to his lips. Ballas gulped the liquid; it was sweet-tasting, and refreshing.
‘Night is falling,’ said Crask, moving to the door. ‘I must tend my eel traps.’
‘You’re going to leave me here, tied up like this?’
‘As I said, I do not trust you. On the morrow, I shall send for the Wardens. They will remove you from this place.’
‘Release me,’ said Ballas, alarmed at the prospect of Wardens, ‘and I will go of my own accord.’
‘You have visited me for a reason,’ said Crask sharply. ‘Will you abandon your purpose the moment I untie you? I do not think so.’
‘If I state my purpose,’ said Ballas, ‘will you consider it?’
Crask grew very still. A flicker of curiosity crept into his eyes. Touching a knuckle to his lips, he said, ‘Very well.’
‘I have to know about Belthirran.’
‘The Land Beyond the Mountains,’ murmured Crask, frowning. ‘The fountainhead of rumour, and dreams, and futile speculation. Why does it interest you?’
‘My motives are not your concern,’ said Ballas. ‘But Belthirran—it exists?’
‘There is something on the other side of the Garsbracks. But what, I cannot say.’
‘Some of the forbidden texts must have concerned Belthirran.’
‘Many of them did,’ agreed Crask. ‘But how is one to sift truth from lies? Many of the texts, on all matters, were forgeries—concoctions intended to make unscrupulous merchants rich. If they had no true documents, they quilled false ones. These were circulated throughout Druine, gradually attaining the lustre of truth.’ He smiled thinly. ‘When the Church arrested me, I had only such fraudulent tracts. That, I think, saved my life. For if I had had genuine texts, I would have been hanged.’
‘Did you know of anyone who crossed the Garsbracks?’ ‘Some men claimed to have done so.’ Crask shrugged. ‘But such accounts cannot be trusted. One contradicts another— and none provides evidence. Some contained maps of supposedly safe routes over the mountains. If anyone followed them, they did not return. Which, I suppose, may indicate either success or failure.’
Ballas licked his lips. ‘Where can I find such maps?’
‘Most will be in the Church’s hands—or they will have been destroyed. A few may be scattered throughout Druine. But I don’t know where.’ He opened the door. ‘Now, I must go to my traps.’
‘You said you would release me …’
‘I said I would consider it.’ Crask gazed evenly at Ballas. ‘You are seeking forbidden knowledge. It would be unwise of me to have such a criminal roaming freely about my home.’
Lugen Crask left the room, closing the door behind him.
Crask entered the next-door room. In an iron bowl, coals burned, warming the air. A young woman sat cross-legged upon a rug close by. She was tying her red hair into a ponytail. She looked up as Crask came in. Her face was slim and delicately featured. She had high cheekbones and a broad mouth, and even though her skin was pale she did not look unhealthy. She finished tying her ponytail, then lowered her hands to her lap. She watched Crask attentively, her hazel eyes reflecting light from the glowing coals.
‘You were eavesdropping,’ said Crask plainly.
‘Of course, father,’ she replied, smiling faintly. ‘The stranger is as much my concern as yours. After all, it was I who saved him.’
Crask nodded.
‘Why won’t you help him?’ she asked simply.
‘He is a fugitive,’ replied Crask, taking a stitched leather coat from a chair back. ‘When I mentioned the Wardens, he reacted strangely. A look of alarm crossed his face.’
‘I am surprised it could be discerned through the bruises,’ said his daughter.
‘It was in his eyes,’ said Crask, indicating his own. ‘It was visible even though they were bloodshot.’
‘And it proves nothing,’ said his daughter, folding her arms. ‘Wardens are not always the most wholesome of people. A certain wariness is understandable. Look at Jaspar Grethinne. He is a drunk, a gambler, his justice is arbitrary—and in the performance of his duties, he is corrupt.’
‘That is true,’ murmured Crask. ‘I doubt whether he will remove our guest without payment of some sort. Let us hope we have a good harvest tonight. We can pay him in eels, yes? Now, are you coming?’
Rising, the young woman drew on her own coat and they stepped outside. Heresh followed Lugen Crask through the marsh. In her right hand she held a lantern. Its light, yellow and sickly, reached out only yards before the mist absorbed it. But, like her father, she knew the marsh well. They had dwelled there, amid vapours, rushes and eels, for ten years. In daylight every clump of vegetation—every reed-patch and tussock—was familiar to her. And in darkness, she read through her boot soles the character of the ground. She recognised every submerged stone, every root-tangle and dip and rise of the swamp. This was her home.
She gazed at her father’s back. A furled net was draped over his shoulder. Under his arm he held a small leather sack. He walked quickly, his boots splashing in the water.
Sunk in the marsh were ruins. An ancient building, too tumbledown to be identified, had been swallowed by the yielding ground. Here and there, sections of masonry still protruded. It was this, in part, that enabled Crask to catch eels normally considered elusive.
They halted at a channel of white rock. Heresh supposed it was a drainage duct of some sort: it was simply a long trench of pale stonework terminating in a wall. Glancing over, her father tossed the net to her. Then he upended the sack into the channel.
A tangle of cow-guts tumbled out. Sniffing, Crask stepped back.
There was nothing to do now except wait.
After a time, there was a far-off splashing noise. And a busy rustling of reeds, as if a strong breeze was blowing though them. Gradually, the noises grew louder. In the moonlight, distant rush-tips quivered.
Thin ripples spread over the water’s surface. Heresh stepped back from the channel.
‘They are coming,’ she said.
‘I hear them,’ replied her father, softly.
A moment later, eels surged into the channel. The slickbodied creatures seethed, each one intercoiling with its neighbours. They rushed towards the cow-guts, their bulbous heads rising from the water. Heresh knew that many of them had exotically coloured skins—blues, pinks, oranges—yet, in the moonlight, they all appeared black. The first eels reached the bait; their maws opened, exposing needle-fine teeth. Over the seething water rose munching sounds.
Crask draped the net over the channel, fastening it to pegs driven into the masonry. One end of the net was weighted with stones. Grasping it, Heresh walked to the point where the channel met the marsh. She dropped the net, trapping the eels in the channel.
Within moments, the cow-guts were devoured. The eels turned around and started to swim back to the marsh—only to find that the net blocked their way. They surged against it, then swam mindlessly back and forth along the channel.
By dawn, they would be dead. These eels—rare, brightly coloured—thrived only in hot climes. They survived Druine’s cold by staying near warm-water vents in the marsh-bed. When tempted by food, though, they would venture into cold water, returning once they had eaten. Now, trapped in the channel, where the water was icy, they would perish. Heresh would come back at first light and collect them. Only in such a fashion could these venomous species be harvested safely.
The residents of Keltherimyn wondered how the eels were caught. Some believed knowledge from forbidden texts was used. Magical rituals from the Distant East. Eel-slaughtering spells from the tropics. Heresh smiled. How would they respond if they knew the truth? If they were told of the simple net-and-cold-water trick devised by her father?
Heresh watched the eels.
‘Come,’ said her father, touching her shoulder. ‘The night is cold, and I am tired.’
